


Blood Bites

by soullessbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Kink, Bottom Sam, Come Marking, Demon Blood Addiction, Knight of Hell Dean, M/M, No Lube, Role Reversal, Rough Sex, Soulless Sam Winchester, Top Dean, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/pseuds/soullessbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has trapped Dean. Won. Dean isn't the only one with a plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Bites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaemonRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaemonRose/gifts).



> This was supposed to be a short fill for my requests on Tumblr, found at [soullessbrothers](), but it took a turn. I hope my buddy likes it!

Sam's smirk doesn't reach his eyes. Little does. Reflected in satin-black, he watches Dean, skims his foot at the edge of the circle.

"You know, I thought you were smarter than that."

"You did, huh?"

"Walking into a devil's trap? Not exactly your shining moment, Dean."

"Guess not," Dean grins. "This better? Me all under control?"

"It's a start. You'll be useful."

"No exorcism today, Sammy?"

"No soul," Sam says. "This is an opportunity."

"Then how about you test the wall."

It's a challenge. Sam knows demons. He thinks for a moment. Dean is stood in the centre, but no power has crept through the ward. It's a strong bind, stronger than either are used to. Sam has done his homework. No sleep means longer trips to the library. He's ready. He's prepared.

"You know," Dean says, "you'd be stronger all hopped on demon blood."

"True."

"And you got a demon. Right here."

"You're not exactly the standard line."

"Better pressed, purer. One honest-to-Hell sweet-cut demon lake. All yours, kiddo."

"You know you can't trick me, right? I mean, I'm the one blessed with brains. That's why you're a demon, and I'm still me."

"I like to think I got myself a little more bounce."

"If you say so."

"So, you wanna make a deal?"

"Not likely. You're twisted, Dean. You're not exactly my brother right now."

"It make it easier to gut me, huh?"

"It was easy to start with."

"That's cold, man."

"And you should be dead."

Dean snorts. The grin falters before it beams out, snatches onto coal-fire. He walks to the edge of the circle and hums.

"You know, this is kinda impressive, Sam."

"I know. I designed it."

"I bet no demon's gonna make it outta here anytime soon."

"That's kinda the point."

"Real big shame, if you ask me."

"Oh, yeah? What's a shame?"

"Shame you ain't holdin' back a demon."

"What?"

Dean walks over the barrier, no flicker of magic to stop him. He snaps out an arm to grab Sam's throat. Sam snarls, punches. Dean's head crashes to the side. Blood pops from a broken nose. He holds on. Fingers tighten around Sam's windpipe, all immovable object to Sam's quick thrash. Sam grabs Dean's wrist with both hands, bites in nails. Dean laughs.

A kick, then, hard enough to shatter lesser bones, but Dean holds steady. Black pinpricks a colour wheel over Sam's eyes, his vision tinted in thick red. It darkens, licks at the edges. He tries to scream. No air. No breath. Scream. Nothing.

Sam stumbles. His knees give out. His blinks are slow. Stuttered. His face brightens with pink, red, purple. Lips tinged blue. Darker. Dean's grin widens.

"Just a little more, Sammy. Never could do the easy way, huh?"

The fight crashes down. Sam falls limp, the pressure in his skull hard-punched against the tremor of his chest. Dean lets go. He lets Sam slump to the floor, curled at an unconscious angle.

"No time for sleep here, princess."

Minutes, hours, and it's Dean's palm that wakes him. Slaps of palm and bare knuckle force Sam back to consciousness. He gasps. More pounds break through his skull.

"Dean, shouldn't, possible," he pants.

"Yeah, well. We're kinda the freakshows of the family."

He's on his back. Dean straddles his chest.

"A long time ago," Dean says, "you were gonna be somethin' special. Now, I dunno if it was just the soul-thing that got in the way, or if you're still gonna be a stubborn ass, but you listen here. You're gonna take your place 'cos I'm ready now, you got that? Ain't no bitch-Ruby feedin' you bullshit. You're gonna get it where I can see it. From me."

Dazed, Sam watches as Dean sinks his teeth into his own forearm. There's a grunt of pain with the break, but it flows, coats his arm.

"Open up, little brother. Time for the airplane."

Those last pinpricks and static noises keep Sam still. His mouth opens, ready to bite back. He's too sluggish. Dean holds his forearm over, an inch too high, so that the blood falls towards his mouth. It drops in. Slides over his tongue. One line trickles to the back of his throat before Sam has to cough, stop another choke.

"That's it. Jesus Christ, you were always bad at takin' your medicine."

That taste. Hot iron tingles with an extra buzz. Sam groans. It's pain, the sick-sweet memory of power. Down his neck, into his gut, the blood explodes out. It's too fast for his system to break, winds over, under sinew and muscle. Knocks up into his skull. Awakens guilt and horror that he can't feel.

"Fuck," he manages, "Dean, fuck—”

"Want that, too."

It's addictive. Dean drops his arm to Sam's lips and watches him suckle. The power cuts through that almost-death and pumps him wild. It's nature, better, the way that he can clamp onto Dean's skin and hold him in place. Hard, he sucks a deep bruise around the bite that Dean had made.

"So good. God. So fucking good."

"Don't I know it."

There's so much that Sam's body can handle before the euphoria kicks in. Luminous, he surges up to grab a fistful of Dean's slightly longer hair and tugs.

"Don't you ever," he growls, "force me to do anything."

"Or. What."

Another battle and Dean smashes down, lets Sam's head connect with the floor. It rattles to the walls, echoed in a gasp of pain. They grapple, roll over, one on top of the other to the frame of Dean's mania, the Mark on his arm orange-hot as it surges, forces more blood to grow.

"My little brother. Taught you everythin' you know."

"Not this."

Sam flips Dean back and pins his hands above his head. Triumphant, he jabs a knee into Dean's hip. Hears a hiss. There's no green to see, only thick black rage.

"Let's fuckin' see."

New strength, more from the Blade, and Dean scratches, punches, tears. Sam's lip is broken. Blood pours down over his chin, soaks into his shirt. Dean won't stop. He punches until Sam is dizzy, until even the poison that licks his ribs can't fight.

They pause there. Stuck in rasped breath, their joined blood plastered over hair and skin and teeth.

Dean laughs. "God, I fuckin' want you."

"You're a coward."

The tears run together. They help. Fingers curl around buttons that clatter to the ground, plaid wrenched aside, fabric ripped apart. Denim's too strong and they break through it, torn and warped together. It's feral, broken, and they thrive.

"Gonna mark you on the fuckin' inside."

"If you've got the balls, you asshole."

It's Sam's hair that's tugged, yanked to the side to force him on his knees. They don't need fingers or coaxes to open. Years of angst and misery carve hurt patterns through their souls, past the Enochian on their ribs.

Dean smacks Sam’s legs apart. Naked, slicked with sweat and blood, Dean pushes into that last, hidden space that had been kept from him. Not now. His cock nudges dry hole and he ignores it, continues on.

The stretch burns. Sam screams out, drops his head. There’s no inch by inch, but a rough slam until Sam’s forced open around him. He can feel the tear, that dull sting that hits fever. Dean grits his teeth against the pressure, the entry closed, until he fucks through.

“Sam,” he grunts.

It’s painful. Painful for both, jonesed on each other and that dark-blood high. The wet tip of Dean’s cock is the only ease, tiny rips inside a race to add more. It’s brutal. Devastation. Sam’s knees scrape over the floor and he has to hold himself tight to stop a slide forward at every thrust.

Over too fast, Dean doesn’t warn for come. He buries hard, the slam of ass to groin another bruise as he fills Sam up, lets him feel heat and mess and worse, stays until his cock starts to wilt.

“Bastard. Fuck you.”

Sam has the last stretch. He twists himself, ignores the aches. Dean slumps back. He’s sated, but Sam is still hard, still desperate. On his back, eyes calmed to normal, his shoulders are relaxed. No threat.

It hurts to shift up, to climb that last ridge and straddle Dean’s chest, but Sam can do it. He doesn’t need sleep, has his own separate energy. He grabs his cock and pumps it, ignores the rough catch of dry palm, all to force the orgasm from himself. It builds. Runs. He strokes again, a twist on the upstroke and he’s done. It spatters out to coat Dean’s face, his mouth, his cheeks. He groans.

Sam glares. “I fucking remember. I know what you want. But I’m the king here, Dean. I’m the master. So you’re gonna give me what I want because I own you. You got that? I’m in charge.”

“Sam—”

“Don’t fucking forget it.”


End file.
